The Raffles Megapack

by E. W. Hornung

  “Together!” I jumped at it. “I’ll do anything in this world for you, Raffles,” I said, “if you really mean that you won’t give me away. Think of anything you like, and I’ll do it! I was a desperate man when I came here, and I’m just as desperate now. I don’t mind what I do if only I can get out of this without a scandal.”

  Again I see him, leaning back in one of the luxurious chairs with which his room was furnished. I see his indolent, athletic figure; his pale, sharp, clean-shaven features; his curly black hair; his strong, unscrupulous mouth. And again I feel the clear beam of his wonderful eye, cold and luminous as a star, shining into my brain—sifting the very secrets of my heart.

  “I wonder if you mean all that!” he said at length. “You do in your present mood; but who can back his mood to last? Still, there’s hope when a chap takes that tone. Now I think of it, too, you were a plucky little devil at school; you once did me rather a good turn, I recollect. Remember it, Bunny? Well, wait a bit, and perhaps I’ll be able to do you a better one. Give me time to think.”

  He got up, lit a fresh cigarette, and fell to pacing the room once more, but with a slower and more thoughtful step, and for a much longer period than before. Twice he stopped at my chair as though on the point of speaking, but each time he checked himself and resumed his stride in silence. Once he threw up the window, which he had shut some time since, and stood for some moments leaning out into the fog which filled the Albany courtyard. Meanwhile a clock on the chimney-piece struck one, and one again for the half-hour, without a word between us.

  Yet I not only kept my chair with patience, but I acquired an incongruous equanimity in that half-hour. Insensibly I had shifted my burden to the broad shoulders of this splendid friend, and my thoughts wandered with my eyes as the minutes passed. The room was the good-sized, square one, with the folding doors, the marble mantel-piece, and the gloomy, old-fashioned distinction peculiar to the Albany. It was charmingly furnished and arranged, with the right amount of negligence and the right amount of taste. What struck me most, however, was the absence of the usual insignia of a cricketer’s den. Instead of the conventional rack of war-worn bats, a carved oak bookcase, with every shelf in a litter, filled the better part of one wall; and where I looked for cricketing groups, I found reproductions of such works as “Love and Death” and “The Blessed Damozel,” in dusty frames and different parallels. The man might have been a minor poet instead of an athlete of the first water. But there had always been a fine streak of aestheticism in his complex composition; some of these very pictures I had myself dusted in his study at school; and they set me thinking of yet another of his many sides—and of the little incident to which he had just referred.

  Everybody knows how largely the tone of a public school depends on that of the eleven, and on the character of the captain of cricket in particular; and I have never heard it denied that in A. J. Raffles’s time our tone was good, or that such influence as he troubled to exert was on the side of the angels. Yet it was whispered in the school that he was in the habit of parading the town at night in loud checks and a false beard. It was whispered, and disbelieved. I alone knew it for a fact; for night after night had I pulled the rope up after him when the rest of the dormitory were asleep, and kept awake by the hour to let it down again on a given signal. Well, one night he was over-bold, and within an ace of ignominious expulsion in the hey-day of his fame. Consummate daring and extraordinary nerve on his part, aided, doubtless, by some little presence of mind on mine, averted the untoward result; and no more need be said of a discreditable incident. But I cannot pretend to have forgotten it in throwing myself on this man’s mercy in my desperation. And I was wondering how much of his leniency was owing to the fact that Raffles had not forgotten it either, when he stopped and stood over my chair once more.

  “I’ve been thinking of that night we had the narrow squeak,” he began. “Why do you start?”

  “I was thinking of it too.”

  He smiled, as though he had read my thoughts.

  “Well, you were the right sort of little beggar then, Bunny; you didn’t talk and you didn’t flinch. You asked no questions and you told no tales. I wonder if you’re like that now?”

  “I don’t know,” said I, slightly puzzled by his tone. “I’ve made such a mess of my own affairs that I trust myself about as little as I’m likely to be trusted by anybody else. Yet I never in my life went back on a friend. I will say that, otherwise perhaps I mightn’t be in such a hole tonight.”

  “Exactly,” said Raffles, nodding to himself, as though in assent to some hidden train of thought; “exactly what I remember of you, and I’ll bet it’s as true now as it was ten years ago. We don’t alter, Bunny. We only develop. I suppose neither you nor I are really altered since you used to let down that rope and I used to come up it hand over hand. You would stick at nothing for a pal—what?”

  “At nothing in this world,” I was pleased to cry.

  “Not even at a crime?” said Raffles, smiling.

  I stopped to think, for his tone had changed, and I felt sure he was chaffing me. Yet his eye seemed as much in earnest as ever, and for my part I was in no mood for reservations.

  “No, not even at that,” I declared; “name your crime, and I’m your man.”

  He looked at me one moment in wonder, and another moment in doubt; then turned the matter off with a shake of his head, and the little cynical laugh that was all his own.

  “You’re a nice chap, Bunny! A real desperate character—what? Suicide one moment, and any crime I like the next! What you want is a drag, my boy, and you did well to come to a decent law-abiding citizen with a reputation to lose. None the less we must have that money tonight—by hook or crook.”

  “Tonight, Raffles?”

  “The sooner the better. Every hour after ten o’clock tomorrow morning is an hour of risk. Let one of those checks get round to your own bank, and you and it are dishonored together. No, we must raise the wind tonight and re-open your account first thing tomorrow. And I rather think I know where the wind can be raised.”

  “At two o’clock in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how—but where—at such an hour?”

  “From a friend of mine here in Bond Street.”

  “He must be a very intimate friend!”

  “Intimate’s not the word. I have the run of his place and a latch-key all to myself.”

  “You would knock him up at this hour of the night?”

  “If he’s in bed.”

  “And it’s essential that I should go in with you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then I must; but I’m bound to say I don’t like the idea, Raffles.”

  “Do you prefer the alternative?” asked my companion, with a sneer. “No, hang it, that’s unfair!” he cried apologetically in the same breath. “I quite understand. It’s a beastly ordeal. But it would never do for you to stay outside. I tell you what, you shall have a peg before we start—just one. There’s the whiskey, here’s a syphon, and I’ll be putting on an overcoat while you help yourself.”

  Well, I daresay I did so with some freedom, for this plan of his was not the less distasteful to me from its apparent inevitability. I must own, however, that it possessed fewer terrors before my glass was empty. Meanwhile Raffles rejoined me, with a covert coat over his blazer, and a soft felt hat set carelessly on the curly head he shook with a smile as I passed him the decanter.

  “When we come back,” said he. “Work first, play afterward. Do you see what day it is?” he added, tearing a leaflet from a Shakespearian calendar, as I drained my glass. “March 15th. ‘The Ides of March, the Ides of March, remember.’ Eh, Bunny, my boy? You won’t forget them, will you?”

  And, with a laugh, he threw some coals on the fire before turning down the gas like a careful householder. So we went out together as the clock on the chimney-piece was striking two.

  II

  Piccadilly was a trench of raw w
hite fog, rimmed with blurred street-lamps, and lined with a thin coating of adhesive mud. We met no other wayfarers on the deserted flagstones, and were ourselves favored with a very hard stare from the constable of the beat, who, however, touched his helmet on recognizing my companion.

  “You see, I’m known to the police,” laughed Raffles as we passed on. “Poor devils, they’ve got to keep their weather eye open on a night like this! A fog may be a bore to you and me, Bunny, but it’s a perfect godsend to the criminal classes, especially so late in their season. Here we are, though—and I’m hanged if the beggar isn’t in bed and asleep after all!”

  We had turned into Bond Street, and had halted on the curb a few yards down on the right. Raffles was gazing up at some windows across the road, windows barely discernible through the mist, and without the glimmer of a light to throw them out. They were over a jeweller’s shop, as I could see by the peep-hole in the shop door, and the bright light burning within. But the entire “upper part,” with the private street-door next the shop, was black and blank as the sky itself.

  “Better give it up for tonight,” I urged. “Surely the morning will be time enough!”

  “Not a bit of it,” said Raffles. “I have his key. We’ll surprise him. Come along.”

  And seizing my right arm, he hurried me across the road, opened the door with his latch-key, and in another moment had shut it swiftly but softly behind us. We stood together in the dark. Outside, a measured step was approaching; we had heard it through the fog as we crossed the street; now, as it drew nearer, my companion’s fingers tightened on my arm.

  “It may be the chap himself,” he whispered. “He’s the devil of a night-bird. Not a sound, Bunny! We’ll startle the life out of him. Ah!”

  The measured step had passed without a pause. Raffles drew a deep breath, and his singular grip of me slowly relaxed.

  “But still, not a sound,” he continued in the same whisper; “we’ll take a rise out of him, wherever he is! Slip off your shoes and follow me.”

  Well, you may wonder at my doing so; but you can never have met A. J. Raffles. Half his power lay in a conciliating trick of sinking the commander in the leader. And it was impossible not to follow one who led with such a zest. You might question, but you followed first. So now, when I heard him kick off his own shoes, I did the same, and was on the stairs at his heels before I realized what an extraordinary way was this of approaching a stranger for money in the dead of night. But obviously Raffles and he were on exceptional terms of intimacy, and I could not but infer that they were in the habit of playing practical jokes upon each other.

  We groped our way so slowly upstairs that I had time to make more than one note before we reached the top. The stair was uncarpeted. The spread fingers of my right hand encountered nothing on the damp wall; those of my left trailed through a dust that could be felt on the banisters. An eerie sensation had been upon me since we entered the house. It increased with every step we climbed. What hermit were we going to startle in his cell?

  We came to a landing. The banisters led us to the left, and to the left again. Four steps more, and we were on another and a longer landing, and suddenly a match blazed from the black. I never heard it struck. Its flash was blinding. When my eyes became accustomed to the light, there was Raffles holding up the match with one hand, and shading it with the other, between bare boards, stripped walls, and the open doors of empty rooms.

  “Where have you brought me?” I cried. “The house is unoccupied!”

  “Hush! Wait!” he whispered, and he led the way into one of the empty rooms. His match went out as we crossed the threshold, and he struck another without the slightest noise. Then he stood with his back to me, fumbling with something that I could not see. But, when he threw the second match away, there was some other light in its stead, and a slight smell of oil. I stepped forward to look over his shoulder, but before I could do so he had turned and flashed a tiny lantern in my face.

  “What’s this?” I gasped. “What rotten trick are you going to play?”

  “It’s played,” he answered, with his quiet laugh.

  “On me?”

  “I am afraid so, Bunny.”

  “Is there no one in the house, then?”

  “No one but ourselves.”

  “So it was mere chaff about your friend in Bond Street, who could let us have that money?”

  “Not altogether. It’s quite true that Danby is a friend of mine.”

  “Danby?”

  “The jeweller underneath.”

  “What do you mean?” I whispered, trembling like a leaf as his meaning dawned upon me. “Are we to get the money from the jeweller?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “What, then?”

  “The equivalent—from his shop.”

  There was no need for another question. I understood everything but my own density. He had given me a dozen hints, and I had taken none. And there I stood staring at him, in that empty room; and there he stood with his dark lantern, laughing at me.

  “A burglar!” I gasped. “You—you!”

  “I told you I lived by my wits.”

  “Why couldn’t you tell me what you were going to do? Why couldn’t you trust me? Why must you lie?” I demanded, piqued to the quick for all my horror.

  “I wanted to tell you,” said he. “I was on the point of telling you more than once. You may remember how I sounded you about crime, though you have probably forgotten what you said yourself. I didn’t think you meant it at the time, but I thought I’d put you to the test. Now I see you didn’t, and I don’t blame you. I only am to blame. Get out of it, my dear boy, as quick as you can; leave it to me. You won’t give me away, whatever else you do!”

  Oh, his cleverness! His fiendish cleverness! Had he fallen back on threats, coercion, sneers, all might have been different even yet. But he set me free to leave him in the lurch. He would not blame me. He did not even bind me to secrecy; he trusted me. He knew my weakness and my strength, and was playing on both with his master’s touch.

  “Not so fast,” said I. “Did I put this into your head, or were you going to do it in any case?”

  “Not in any case,” said Raffles. “It’s true I’ve had the key for days, but when I won tonight I thought of chucking it; for, as a matter of fact, it’s not a one-man job.”

  “That settles it. I’m your man.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yes—for tonight.”

  “Good old Bunny,” he murmured, holding the lantern for one moment to my face; the next he was explaining his plans, and I was nodding, as though we had been fellow-cracksmen all our days.

  “I know the shop,” he whispered, “because I’ve got a few things there. I know this upper part too; it’s been to let for a month, and I got an order to view, and took a cast of the key before using it. The one thing I don’t know is how to make a connection between the two; at present there’s none. We may make it up here, though I rather fancy the basement myself. If you wait a minute I’ll tell you.”

  He set his lantern on the floor, crept to a back window, and opened it with scarcely a sound: only to return, shaking his head, after shutting the window with the same care.

  “That was our one chance,” said he; “a back window above a back window; but it’s too dark to see anything, and we daren’t show an outside light. Come down after me to the basement; and remember, though there’s not a soul on the premises, you can’t make too little noise. There—there—listen to that!”

  It was the measured tread that we had heard before on the flagstones outside. Raffles darkened his lantern, and again we stood motionless till it had passed.

  “Either a policeman,” he muttered, “or a watchman that all these jewellers run between them. The watchman’s the man for us to watch; he’s simply paid to spot this kind of thing.”

  We crept very gingerly down the stairs, which creaked a bit in spite of us, and we picked up our shoes in the passage; then down some nar
row stone steps, at the foot of which Raffles showed his light, and put on his shoes once more, bidding me do the same in a rather louder tone than he had permitted himself to employ overhead. We were now considerably below the level of the street, in a small space with as many doors as it had sides. Three were ajar, and we saw through them into empty cellars; but in the fourth a key was turned and a bolt drawn; and this one presently let us out into the bottom of a deep, square well of fog. A similar door faced it across this area, and Raffles had the lantern close against it, and was hiding the light with his body, when a short and sudden crash made my heart stand still. Next moment I saw the door wide open, and Raffles standing within and beckoning me with a jimmy.

  “Door number one,” he whispered. “Deuce knows how many more there’ll be, but I know of two at least. We won’t have to make much noise over them, either; down here there’s less risk.”

  We were now at the bottom of the exact fellow to the narrow stone stair which we had just descended: the yard, or well, being the one part common to both the private and the business premises. But this flight led to no open passage; instead, a singularly solid mahogany door confronted us at the top.

  “I thought so,” muttered Raffles, handing me the lantern, and pocketing a bunch of skeleton keys, after tampering for a few minutes with the lock. “It’ll be an hour’s work to get through that!”

  “Can’t you pick it?”

  “No: I know these locks. It’s no use trying. We must cut it out, and it’ll take us an hour.”

  It took us forty-seven minutes by my watch; or, rather, it took Raffles; and never in my life have I seen anything more deliberately done. My part was simply to stand by with the dark lantern in one hand, and a small bottle of rock-oil in the other.